Simone Weil’s interpretation of the Iliad

The true hero, the true subject, the centre of the Iliad is force. Force employed by man, force that enslaves man, force before which man’s flesh shrinks away. In this work, at all times, the human spirit is shown as modified by its relations with force, as swept away, blinded by the very force it imagined it could handle, as deformed by the weight of the force it submits to…

To define force - it is that x that turns anybody who is subjected to it into a thing. Exercise to the limit, it turns man into a thing in the most literal sense: it makes a corpse out of him. Somebody was here, and the next minute there is nobody here at all; thi is a spectacle the Iliad never wearies of showing us…

The death of Hector

All around, his black hair

Was spread; in the dust his whole head lay,

That once-charming head; now Zeus had let his enemies

Defile it on his native soil.

…

His soul, fleeing his limbs, passed to Hades,

Mourning its fate, forsaking its youth and vigour.

…

She ordered her bright-haired maids in the palace

To place on the fire a large tripod, preparing

A hot bath for Hector, returning from battle.

Foolish woman! Already he lay, far from hot baths,

Slain by grey-eyed Athena, who guided Achilles’ arm.

When Priam goes to see Hector

No one saw great Priam enter. He stopped

Clasped the knees of Achilles, kissed his hands,

Those terrible man-killing hands that had slaughtered so many of his sons.

…

As when harsh misfortune strikes a man if in his own country

He has killed a man, and arrives at last at someone else’s door,

The door of a rich man; a shudder seizes those who see him.

So Achilles shuddered to see divine Priam;

The others shuddered too, looking one at the other.

He spoke. The other, remembering his own father, longed to weep;

Taking the old man’s arm, he pushed him away.

Both were remembering. Thinking of Hector, killer of men,

Priam wept, abased at the feet of Achilles.

But Achilles wept, now for his father,

Now for Patroclus. And their sobs resounded through the house.

Anybody who is in our vicinity exercises a certain power over us by his very presence, and a power that belongs to him alone, that is, the power of halting, repressing, modifying each movement that our body sketches out. If we step aside for a passer-by on the road, it is not the same thing as stepping aside to avoid a billboard; alone in our rooms, we get up, walk about, sit down again quite differently from the way we do when we have a visitor. But this indefinable influence that the presence of another human being has on us is not exercised by men whom a moment of impatience can deprive of life, who can die before even thought has a chance to pass sentence on them. In their presence, people move about as if they were not there; they, on their side, running the risk of being reduced to nothing in a single instant, imitate nothingness in their own persons. Pushed, they fall. Fallen, they lie where they are, unless chance gives somebody the idea of raising them up again.

      So they wept, the two of them crying out

to their dear son, both pleading time and again

but they could not shake the fixed resolve of Hector.

No, he waited Achilles, coming on, gigantic in power.

As a snake in the hills, guarding his hole, awaits a man—

bloated with poison, deadly hatred seething inside him,

glances flashing fire as he coils round his lair . . .

so Hector, nursing his quenchless fury, gave no ground,

leaning his burnished shield against a jutting wall,

but harried still, he probed his own brave heart:

"No way out. If I slip inside the gates and walls,

Polydamas will be first to heap disgrace on me—

he was the one who urged me to lead our Trojans

back to Ilium just last night, the disastrous night

Achilles rose in arms like a god. But did I give way?

Not at all. And how much better it would have been!

Now my army's ruined, thanks to my own reckless pride,

I would die of shame to face the men of Troy

and the Trojan women trailing their long robes . . .

Someone less of a man than I will say, 'Our Hector—

staking all on his own strength, he destroyed his army!'

So they will mutter. So now, better by far for me

to stand up to Achilles, kill him, come home alive

or die at his hands in glory out before the walls.

But wait—what if I put down my studded shield

and heavy helmet, prop my spear on the rampart

and go forth, just as I am, to meet Achilles,

noble Prince Achilles . . .

why, I could promise to give back Helen, yes,

and all her treasures with her, all those riches

Paris once hauled home to Troy in the hollow ships—

and they were the cause of all our endless fighting—

Yes, yes, return it all to the sons of Atreus now

to haul away, and then, at the same time, divide

the rest with all the Argives, all the city holds,

and then I'd take an oath for the Trojan royal council

that we will hide nothing! Share and share alike the hoards

our handsome citadel stores within its depths and—

Why debate, my friend? Why thrash things out?

I must not go and implore him. He'll show no mercy,

no respect for me, my rights-he'll cut me down

straight off—stripped of defenses like a woman

once I have loosed the armor off my body.

No way to parley with that man—not now—

not from behind some oak or rock to whisper,

like a boy and a young girl, lovers' secrets

a boy and girl might whisper to each other . . .

Better to clash in battle, now, at once—

see which fighter Zeus awards the glory!"

                                                  So he wavered,

waiting there, but Achilles was closing on him now

like the god of war, the fighter's helmet flashing,

over his right shoulder shaking the Pelian ash spear,

that terror, and the bronze around his body flared

like a raging fire or the rising, blazing sun.

Hector looked up, saw him, started to tremble,

nerve gone, he could hold his ground no longer,

he left the gates behind and away he fled in fear—

and Achilles went for him, fast, sure of his speed

as the wild mountain hawk, the quickest thing on wings,

launching smoothly, swooping down on a cringing dove

and the dove flits out from under, the hawk screaming

over the quarry, plunging over and over, his fury

driving him down to beak and tear his kill—

so Achilles flew at him, breakneck on in fury

with Hector fleeing along the walls of Troy,

fast as his legs would go. On and on they raced,

passing the lookout point, passing the wild fig tree

tossed by the wind, always out from under the ramparts

down the wagon trail they careered until they reached

the clear running springs where whirling Scamander

rises up from its double wellsprings bubbling strong—

and one runs hot and the steam goes up around it,

drifting thick as if fire burned at its core

but the other even in summer gushes cold

as hail or freezing snow or water chilled to ice . . .

And here, close to the springs, lie washing-pools

scooped out in the hollow rocks and broad and smooth

where the wives of Troy and all their lovely daughters

would wash their glistening robes in the old days,

the days of peace before the sons of Achaea came . . .

Past these they raced, one escaping, one in pursuit

and the one who fled was great but the one pursuing

greater, even greater—their pace mounting in speed

since both men strove, not for a sacrificial beast

or oxhide trophy, prizes runners fight for, no,

they raced for the life of Hector breaker of horses.

Like powerful stallions sweeping round the post for trophies,

galloping full stretch with some fine prize at stake,

a tripod, say, or woman offered up at funeral games

for some brave hero fallen—so the two of them

whirled three times around the city of Priam,

sprinting at top speed while all the gods gazed down,

and the father of men and gods broke forth among them now:

"Unbearable—a man I love, hunted round his own city walls

and right before my eyes. My heart grieves for Hector.

Hector who burned so many oxen in my honor, rich cuts,

now on the rugged crests of Ida, now on Ilium's heights.

But now, look, brilliant Achilles courses him round

the city of Priam in all his savage, lethal speed.

Come, you immortals, think this through. Decide.

Either we pluck the man from death and save his life

or strike him down at last, here at Achilles' hands—

for all his fighting heart."

                                                  But immortal Athena,

her gray eyes wide, protested strongly: "Father!

Lord of the lightning, king of the black cloud,

what are you saying? A man, a mere mortal,

his doom sealed long ago? You'd set him free

from all the pains of death?

                                                  Do as you please—

but none of the deathless gods will ever praise you."

      And Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,

"Courage, Athena, third-born of the gods, dear child.

Nothing I said was meant in earnest, trust me,

I mean you all the good will in the world. Go.

Do as your own impulse bids you. Hold back no more."

      So he launched Athena already poised for action—

down the goddess swept from Olympus' craggy peaks.

      And swift Achilles kept on coursing Hector, nonstop

as a hound in the mountains starts a fawn from its lair,

hunting him down the gorges, down the narrow glens

and the fawn goes to ground, hiding deep in brush

but the hound comes racing fast, nosing him out

until he lands his kill. So Hector could never throw

Achilles off his trail, the swift racer Achilles—

time and again he'd make a dash for the Dardan Gates,

trying to rush beneath the rock-built ramparts, hoping

men on the heights might save him, somehow, raining spears

but time and again Achilles would intercept him quickly,

heading him off, forcing him out across the plain

and always sprinting along the city side himself—

endless as in a dream . . .

when a man can't catch another fleeing on ahead

and he can never escape nor his rival overtake him—

so the one could never run the other down in his speed

nor the other spring away. And how could Hector have fled

the fates of death so long? How unless one last time,

one final time Apollo had swept in close beside him,

driving strength in his legs and knees to race the wind?

And brilliant Achilles shook his head at the armies,

never letting them hurl their sharp spears at Hector—

someone might snatch the glory, Achilles come in second.

But once they reached the springs for the fourth time,

then Father Zeus held out his sacred golden scales:

in them he placed two fates of death that lays men low—

one for Achilles, one for Hector breaker of horses—

and gripping the beam mid-haft the Father raised it high

and down went Hector's day of doom, dragging him down

to the strong House of Death—and god Apollo left him.

Athena rushed to Achilles, her bright eyes gleaming,

standing shoulder-to-shoulder, winging orders now:

"At last our hopes run high, my brilliant Achilles—

Father Zeus must love you—

we'll sweep great glory back to Achaea's fleet,

we'll kill this Hector, mad as he is for battle!

No way for him to escape us now, no longer—

not even if Phoebus the distant deadly Archer

goes through torments, pleading for Hector's life,

groveling over and over before our storming Father Zeus.

But you, you hold your ground and catch your breath,

while I run Hector down and persuade the man

to fight you face-to-face."

                                                  So Athena commanded

and he obeyed, rejoicing at heart—Achilles stopped,

leaning against his ashen spearshaft barbed in bronze.

And Athena left him there, caught up with Hector at once,

and taking the build and vibrant voice of Deiphobus

stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, winging orders:

"Dear brother, how brutally swift Achilles hunts you—

coursing you round the city of Priam in all his lethal speed!

Come, let us stand our ground together—beat him back."

      "Deiphobus!"—Hector, his helmet flashing, called out to her"—

dearest of all my brothers, all these warring years,

of all the sons that Priam and Hecuba produced!

Now I'm determined to praise you all the more,

you who dared—seeing me in these straits—

to venture out from the walls, all for my sake,

while the others stay inside and cling to safety."

      The goddess answered quickly, her eyes blazing,

"True, dear brother—how your father and mother both

implored me, time and again, clutching my knees,

and the comrades round me begging me to stay!

Such was the fear that broke them, man for man,

but the heart within me broke with grief for you.

Now headlong on and fight! No letup, no lance spared!

So now, now we'll see if Achilles kills us both

and hauls our bloody armor back to the beaked ships

or he goes down in pain beneath your spear."

      Athena luring him on with all her immortal cunning—

and now, at last, as the two came closing for the kill

it was tall Hector, helmet flashing, who led off:

"No more running from you in fear, Achilles!

Not as before. Three times I fled around

the great city of Priam—I lacked courage then

to stand your onslaught. Now my spirit stirs me

to meet you face-to-face. Now kill or be killed!

Come, we'll swear to the gods, the highest witnesses—

the gods will oversee our binding pacts. I swear

I will never mutilate you—merciless as you are—

if Zeus allows me to last it out and tear your life away.

But once I've stripped your glorious armor, Achilles,

I will give your body back to your loyal comrades.

Swear you'll do the same."

                                                      A swift dark glance

and the headstrong runner answered, "Hector, stop!

You unforgivable, you . . . don't talk to me of pacts.

There are no binding oaths between men and lions—

wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds—

they are all bent on hating each other to the death.

So with you and me. No love between us. No truce

till one or the other falls and gluts with blood

Ares who hacks at men behind his rawhide shield.

Come, call up whatever courage you can muster.

Life or death—now prove yourself a spearman,

a daring man of war! No more escape for you—

Athena will kill you with my spear in just a moment.

Now you'll pay at a stroke for all my comrades' grief,

all you killed in the fury of your spear!"

                                                            With that,

shaft poised, he hurled and his spear's long shadow flew

but seeing it coming glorious Hector ducked away,

crouching down, watching the bronze tip fly past

and stab the earth—but Athena snatched it up

and passed it back to Achilles

and Hector the gallant captain never saw her.

He sounded out a challenge to Peleus' princely son:

"You missed, look—the great godlike Achilles!

So you knew nothing at all from Zeus about my death—

and yet how sure you were! All bluff, cunning with words,

that's all you are—trying to make me fear you,

lose my nerve, forget my fighting strength.

Well, you'll never plant your lance in my back

as I flee you in fear—plunge it through my chest

as I come charging in, if a god gives you the chance!

But now it's for you to dodge my brazen spear—

I wish you'd bury it in your body to the hilt.

How much lighter the war would be for Trojans then

if you, their greatest scourge, were dead and gone!"

      Shaft poised, he hurled and his spear's long shadow flew

and it struck Achilles' shield—a dead-center hit—

but off and away it glanced and Hector seethed,

his hurtling spear, his whole arm's power poured

in a wasted shot. He stood there, cast down . . .

he had no spear in reserve. So Hector shouted out

to Deiphobus bearing his white shield—with a ringing shout

he called for a heavy lance—

                      but the man was nowhere near him,

vanished—

             yes and Hector knew the truth in his heart

and the fighter cried aloud, "My time has come!

At last the gods have called me down to death.

I thought he was at my side, the hero Deiphobus—

he's safe inside the walls, Athena's tricked me blind.

And now death, grim death is looming up beside me,

no longer far away. No way to escape it now. This,

this was their pleasure after all, sealed long ago—

Zeus and the son of Zeus, the distant deadly Archer—

though often before now they rushed to my defense.

So now I meet my doom. Well let me die—

but not without struggle, not without glory, no,

in some great clash of arms that even men to come

will hear of down the years!"

                                                  And on that resolve

he drew the whetted sword that hung at his side,

tempered, massive, and gathering all his force

he swooped like a soaring eagle

launching down from the dark clouds to earth

to snatch some helpless lamb or trembling hare.

So Hector swooped now, swinging his whetted sword

and Achilles charged too, bursting with rage, barbaric,

guarding his chest with the well-wrought blazoned shield,

head tossing his gleaming helmet, four horns strong

and the golden plumes shook that the god of fire

drove in bristling thick along its ridge.

Bright as that star amid the stars in the night sky,

star of the evening, brightest star that rides the heavens,

so fire flared from the sharp point of the spear Achilles

brandished high in his right hand, bent on Hector's death,

scanning his splendid body—where to pierce it best?

The rest of his flesh seemed all encased in armor,

burnished, brazen—Achilles' armor that Hector stripped

from strong Patroclus when he killed him—true,

but one spot lay exposed,

where collarbones lift the neckbone off the shoulders,

the open throat, where the end of life comes quickest—there

as Hector charged in fury brilliant Achilles drove his spear

and the point went stabbing clean through the tender neck

but the heavy bronze weapon failed to slash the windpipe—

Hector could still gasp out some words, some last reply . . .

he crashed in the dust—

                                        godlike Achilles gloried over him:

"Hector—surely you thought when you stripped Patroclus' armor

that you, you would be safe! Never a fear of me—

far from the fighting as I was—you fool!

Left behind there, down by the beaked ships

his great avenger waited, a greater man by far—

that man was I, and I smashed your strength! And you—

the dogs and birds will maul you, shame your corpse

while Achaeans bury my dear friend in glory!"

      Struggling for breath, Hector, his helmet flashing,

said, "I beg you, beg you by your life, your parents—

don't let the dogs devour me by the Argive ships!

Wait, take the princely ransom of bronze and gold,

the gifts my father and noble mother will give you—

but give my body to friends to carry home again,

so Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor

with fitting rites of fire once t am dead."

      Staring grimly, the proud runner Achilles answered,

"Beg no more, you fawning dog—begging me by my parents!

Would to god my rage, my fury would drive me now

to hack your flesh away and eat you raw—

such agonies you have caused me! Ransom?

No man alive could keep the dog-packs off you,

not if they haul in ten, twenty times that ransom

and pile it here before me and promise fortunes more—

no, not even if Dardan Priam should offer to weigh out

your bulk in gold! Not even then will your noble mother

lay you on your deathbed, mourn the son she bore . . .

The dogs and birds will rend you—blood and bone!"

      At the point of death, Hector, his helmet flashing,

said, "I know you well—I see my fate before me.

Never a chance that I could win you over . . .

Iron inside your chest, that heart of yours.

But now beware, or my curse will draw god's wrath

upon your head, that day when Paris and lord Apollo—

for all your fighting heart—destroy you at the Scaean Gates!"

      Death cut him short. The end closed in around him.

Flying free of his limbs

his soul went winging down to the House of Death,

wailing his fate, leaving his manhood far behind,

his young and supple strength. But brilliant Achilles

taunted Hector's body, dead as he was, "Die, die!

For my own death, I'll meet it freely—whenever Zeus

and the other deathless gods would like to bring it on!"

      With that he wrenched his bronze spear from the corpse,

laid it aside and ripped the bloody armor off the back.

And the other sons of Achaea, running up around him,

crowded closer, all of them gazing wonder-struck

at the build and marvelous, lithe beauty of Hector.

And not a man came forward who did not stab his body,

glancing toward a comrade, laughing: "Ah, look here—

how much softer he is to handle now, this Hector,

than when he gutted our ships with roaring fire!"

      Standing over him, so they'd gloat and stab his body.

But once he had stripped the corpse the proud runner Achilles

took his stand in the midst of all the Argive troops

and urged them on with a flight of winging orders:

"Friends—lords of the Argives, O my captains!

Now that the gods have let me kill this man

who caused us agonies, loss on crushing loss—

more than the rest of all their men combined—

come, let us ring their walls in armor, test them,

see what recourse the Trojans still may have in mind.

Will they abandon the city heights with this man fallen?

Or brace for a last, dying stand though Hector's gone?

But wait—what am I saying? Why this deep debate?

Down by the ships a body lies unwept, unburied—

Patroclus . . . I will never forget him,

not as long as I'm still among the living

and my springing knees will lift and drive me on.

Though the dead forget their dead in the House of Death,

I will remember, even there, my dear companion.

                                                            Now,

come, you sons of Achaea, raise a song of triumph!

Down to the ships we march and bear this corpse on high—

we have won ourselves great glory. We have brought

magnificent Hector down, that man the Trojans

glorified in their city like a god!"

                                                            So he triumphed

and now he was bent on outrage, on shaming noble Hector.

Piercing the tendons, ankle to heel behind both feet,

he knotted straps of rawhide through them both,

lashed them to his chariot, left the head to drag

and mounting the car, hoisting the famous arms aboard,

he whipped his team to a run and breakneck on they flew,

holding nothing back. And a thick cloud of dust rose up

from the man they dragged, his dark hair swirling round

that head so handsome once, all tumbled low in the dust—

since Zeus had given him over to his enemies now

to be defiled in the land of his own fathers.

—Homer, The Iliad